Spirit Slayers
by awesomeasusual
Summary: There are weird things happening in Shibusen Castle and it's killing revenue. What's a young heir supposed to do? Call up the Spirit Slayers, of course.
1. Something Strange

The dim blue light of the computer illuminates Dexter Kid's face, pale and thin-lipped, eyes shuddering closed with every click of the mouse. His coffee, long cold, sits precariously close to the edge of the grand desk. Hand carved, it was a prized item his father's collection. His papers had pushed it to the edge , the numerous stacks haphazardly organized, very unlike himself.

He didn't bother fixing it, as he would have any other day. He could almost hear Liz and Patty, his keepers, for a lack of a better word, tease him and claim he's finally loosening up.

He sighs and turns back to the video on the screen. He clicks on the red and white play button, and waits, the wi-fi at this altitude is sketchy at best and the phone reception non-existent at worst, making communication difficult.

"Kid," says a crackly voice.

Except the hand-held radios.

Kid squeezes the radio with his empty hand. "What is it, Patty?"

"Time for bed, Kiddy-cat!"

He winces at his childhood nickname, bestowed upon him by his youngest foster sister and head of security, Patty. They're all of age now, but old habits are hard to break. Especially if no effort is given to break them.

"Just a minute please," he replies.

"Kiiii-iid," Patty whines, adding innumerous syllables to his name.

"I'll set the alarm," he offers.

There's a pause over the radio and then, "AND you have to turn off the fans."

Kid leans his forehead on the radio in regret and grunts. With a curt "fine," he shuts off his radio just in time to hear Patty say "Yussssss," and tosses the radio on the short stack of papers.

He turns his attention back to the computer and clicks play.

The stylized black, white, and red opening for _Spirit Slayers_ gives the impression a iMovie template, but he leans in closer as the host, an energetic man with bright blue hair, describes his location.

"'Sup, Spirit Slayers! It's your host, Black Star. Here we are in Reno, Nevada, as we explore the city's most haunted places…"

The man with the unfortunate moniker talks faster as his excitement grows, and Kid can't help grinning along with with him. They're on a college campus, where there have been reports of disembodied voices and sightings, strangely, on the first and sixth floors only.

They move on to a different building on campus when the dorms come up empty.

"This building to be a slaughterhouse," the voice over explains in a low, gravely voice.

"Sick," says Black Star, seeming to respond to the voice over, eyes marveling.

They creep in deeper into the building, when something dark races across the screen.

"There," Black Star whispers, and launches himself after the shadow. The camera shakes in an effort to keep up with the blue streak ahead of them, when the blue suddenly stops.

The camera pans to the ceiling, where the shadow sticks to the very corner where the wall meets the ceiling.

"Woah," says Kid, in unison with Black Star.

Black Star creeps closer with his hands raised. The camera zooms in closer over his shoulder to peer into the shadows.

Red eyes glow from deep within the dark.

"Shit," Black Star hisses, and the red eyes, now framed with horns and steaming nostrils, comes rushing towards the host.

Black Star yelps and dodges the charging shadow. The recording jolts as the camera man leaps away. They hit the ground as the dark shadow charges again, focused entirely on the host. Black Star stands his ground, reaches around to his back pocket and whips out a small, leatherbound book. He opens it and begins to read outloud.

The shadow shudders to a halt. It solidifies to broad haunches and stamping hooves. Black Star does not falter. He raises one hand and makes the cross sign in the air. The shadow, snorting, steam rising from it's enormous nostrils, shakes violently, the very edges of it's form trembling.

Black Star finishes reading the book and throws the entire bible at the shadow.

Upon impact, the shadow explodes. Ash rains down on Black Star, who grins triumphantly.

To the camera, he says, "Another spirit slayed by the one, the only Black Star."He gives the camera an exaggerated wink and salute. As the credits roll, the gravely voice reveals that the university saw a great reduction in cattle sightings on the first and sixth floors. The voice thanks the University for their patients, and gives a link to a fundraising site. The voice requests that viewers donate to help cover the damages seen during the episode.

Kid clinks on the link. He scans the description, which links back to the episode he just saw.

Kid's arrow hovers over their contact information.

He glances over one of the smaller stacks, the pathetic pile of entrance tickets sold over the weekend, and then to the framed picture of his father, white streaks in his pitch black hair, so similar to his own.

 _Sorry, father,_ he laments.

Kid squares his shoulders and clicks the button with an air of someone signing a petition just to make solicitors _go away._ In the subject box, he types _Ghosts in a Castle?_

Maka paces back in forth in front of her favorite window, careful to keep her steps firmly on the threadbare rug, occasionally glancing out at the curing driveway. Every rustle from the perpetually humming fans made her turn her head towards outside, giving herself whiplash and smacking herself in the face with her own twin-tails. Liz teased her about them, telling her to literally let her hair down for once. Maka found the hairstyle practical and, frankly, she thought it was a cute look. Perhaps not suiting to a woman in her third semester of graduate school, but whatever Maka liked it.

After another short turn on her cardboard perch, Maka re-read the information on her clipboard.

… _tv crew…_

 _...four overnight guests…._

 _...ghosts finder people…_

Maka snorts and tucks the clipboard behind her back, never ceasing her pacing. Her eyes dart to the window again, trying to get a glimpse of the van that she knew was coming.

Her hands tighten around the clipboard; she ignores the creaking plastic threatening to snap in her palms. Her newly found yoga practice was the only thing that kept her from throwing it, full force, at Kid's head when he told her that a camera crew was coming to Death Castle.

With their equipment.

And they would be staying _overnight_.

Not even _she_ got to stay over-night, she pouts to herself.

She's on the third floor, but her ears pick up the crunch of gravel and she scurries out of the library and down the narrow stairs as fast as she can in her professional looking ballet flats.

Maka weaves in and out of the intricate hallways, every inch of limestone and granite engraved in her heart. She did, however, trip on the same gnarled rug she always did. She picks herself up, quickly brushes the dust off of her neat plaid skirt, and continues on her way to the drive way.

She barely has time to straighten her smart blazer before the van grinds to a halt and a rather muscular man with blue hair pops out of the passenger seat of the van.

He yawns, obscenely loud, and stretches his arms over his head. Maka fixes her gaze on his wide open mouth, fastidiously ignoring the tumble of fast food wrappers spilling out of the van in his wake.

He scratches his stomach with dirty fingernails and smiles when he spots Maka.

"Ah, a fan," he says, and winks at her. Maka stifles her eye roll and sticks out a hand.

"Site Historian and Lead Docent," she corrects stiffly.

His grin only grows wider as he takes her hand and introduces himself. "Call me Black Star. It's my stage name," he whispers as he leans in conspiratorially.

"Wouldn't have guessed," Maka says flatly.

Black Star eyes her carefully, pigtails to sensible work shoes and back up, before busting out into a full belly laugh. "You're going to be fun to fuck with," he chortles. He drops her hand and shouts to the other passengers in the van. "Get your asses in gear, chumps. We've got ghosties to get."

The van door bursts open and more men clad in black hop out of the vehicle. They begin to unload in practiced rhythm, dancers with the bulkiest props Maka has ever seen.

"You need to sign in," Maka begins, remembering herself. She whips her clipboard out of her blazer- ignoring Black Star's _where the fuck did that come from-_ and produces a stack of name tags from paperwork.

Black Star plucks the name tags from her hands with two sticky-looking fingers. "You seriously don't know who we are?"

"There is no _we_ , Star," a low voice interrupts. " _Spirit Slayers_ is a web series."

Maka turns to glare at the source of the voice but stops as she takes in a bright orange shirt under a leather jacket, the sleeves of which rolled up to reveal strong, tanned forearms. Intricate tattoos peek out from his jacket sleeves, tiny music notes twisting their way around to reach his wrist.

The man starts under her stare and rapidly sets down his armful of equipment, his sleeves tragically slip down, hiding his forearms away.

"Hello," he says seriously, and pushes his white hair off of his forehead. "I'm Soul. It's nice to meet you, ma'am."

 _Ma'am?_

Maka takes his hand outstretched, satisfied when he flinches in her grip. "It's Maka," she says through grit teeth. "I'll be your guide."

"Great," Soul says, gingerly taking his hand back. "Looking forward to it."

He steps away from her slowly, not turning his back until he's well behind the cavernous van.

Glaring at his retreating form, Maka turns back to Black Star.

"Here is your itinerary," she says mechanically, shoving a select stack of papers from her clipboard into his gut. "Welcome to Shibusen Castle."

"Sweet," Black Star grins. He drops the stack of papers in favor of shading his eyes from the bright morning sun, sending Maka's meticulously organized itinerary into the dirt. Maka emits a sound from the Cretaceous Period and scrambles to pick up the paperwork. "You know anything about the ghosties that need gotten?"

"What," Maka snaps.

He opens his mouth, undoubtedly to say something else incredibly stupid, but his eyes catch on something behind Maka, and his jaw hangs a little looser.

Bewildered, Maka follows Black Star gaze, then rolls her eyes. Her boss, Dexter Kid, steps gracefully onto the sidewalk next to Maka, clad in his usual black, rings glittering in the sun.

"Welcome," he says to Black Star primly, extending a pale hand. "Dexter Kid. I summoned you here."

Black Star gleefully takes Kid's hand in his, squeezing it in a battle of masculinity or sheer lack of wits, Maka can't decide. Kid, unfazed, equals the pressure easily.

Black Star backs off quickly and takes his hand back, rubbing it thoughtfully.

"Dexter Kid," Black Star says. "You got a nickname?"

"Most people call me Kid." He shrugs at Black Star's wrinkling nose. "It's better than _Dex_."

"True that," agrees Black Star, holding out a fist for Kid to bump. Kid obliges with a small grin, which forces Maka to turn away from the sheer bro-ness of the moment.

Maka steps up onto the curb, her back turned stiffly towards them. She fixes her glare on marble staircase she had regrettably descended from.

 _Another Boys' Club_ , she seethes. More male bullshit she would have to endure.

From behind her, someone mutters, "She's either 14 or 40; I can't tell."

Fire erupts in Maka's veins. She whips around and launches her clipboard at the speaker.

" **I'm 27** ," she screeches.

She hits her target, as always, and Soul, who had introduced himself so politely, doubles over, the clipboard and assorted papers strewn at his feet.

Maka's anger seeps out of her and is left with the dredges of embarrassment.

"Ah, I see you're getting to know each other," observes Kid. "Perfect. Tonight will be less awkward, then."

Maka blinks. "Tonight?"

"Yes, they're staying the night with you as their host."

"Noice," Black Star says approvingly. "We'll get you to lighten up, no problem. We've got beer!"

"You're _not_ drinking in the castle," Maka says furiously. She Kid to says, "Why do I have to watch them?"

"I have meetings, you know that. And besides," Kid says, lowering his voice. "You're the only one I trust to protect the castle, and keep the integrity strong."

Maka's ego inflates without her permission, but she says nothing and purses her lips.

Kid eyes her expression carefully. "You can stay in the Celestine," he offers, dangling the last carrot.

"Fine,' Maka bites out, pretending to still be put-out. "But it won't be my fault if that asshole ends up taped to his bed post."

"Careful," Black Star interrupts, gleefully shoving his way in between them. "I might be into that."


	2. It Won't Look Good

Soul cringes as he listens to Star make yet another incredibly inappropriate joke.

"He's gunna get us kicked out," Soul grumbles to Harvar, the cameraman. " _Again._ "

Harvar shrugs, his expression hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. "You didn't want to be the host," he points out. "We needed someone with charisma."

Soul glances over to Star and Maka, their hostess for the next few days and nights, to make sure they're keeping their job.

Thankfully, Maka is quick to shake off Black Star with a quick jab to the gut, to which he replies with more laughter, seeming to only incense her further.

Soul grins as he watches her stomp up the steps to the bubbling fountain, muttering dangerously the whole way up.

 _If she can hold her own against Star_ , he thinks, _She just might survive. And we might actually get paid._

Soul helps Harvar unload the rest of their crap, setting it down on the sidewalk. He stares up at the castle and its many, many floors.

"Hey," he calls over to Maka.

She barely turns her head to reply, "What."

Soul's hands come up defensively, automatic, like he's approaching a crabby tiger. With a toothache.

"Where exactly are we staying?"

Maka turns back around, the question apparently unimportant.

"In the castle," she says flatly. "Second floor. Assistants are taking fresh sheets and electric lights to your rooms. You'll share one room," she adds, just with a dash of venom.

"Crap," Soul mutters, as Black Star preens.

"Aw, yesss, dude-bro sleepover party," Star says, flexing his biceps.

Maka eyes Star suspiciously.

"Last time we had a sleepover," Soul explains. "Star burned down a barn."

"Allegedly," Star adds.

Maka fumbles for her walkie-talkie. "I'll see what I can do about the rooms."

Black Star, who is probably part wolfhound, Soul decides, suddenly turns towards the long-ass drive way.

"We got trouble," Star says, shading his eyes with his hand.

A slick black car winds its way up the hills, creeping through the dirt like a shiny roach.

Maka puts her hand above her eyes to shade them, watching the car. "Who's that?"

Soul doesn't spare the car a glance, just drags his hand through his white hair, his eyes darting from the van to the castle to Maka and back again. "Wes."

Soul busies himself with lugging the equipment to the doors of the castle, not _not_ attempting to hide himself behind the growing pile.

Wes, the eldest Evans brother, insists on personally inspecting every single site they film at. By inspecting, Wes usually shows up in an expensive suit and preens, adjusts the lights to suit his tastes, and leaves with at least 3 phone numbers from attractive strangers. But not before offering Soul a contract to host the web-series, because having the Evanses produce _and_ host a popular web series would only further the family's reputation in media, and expand their multi-million dollar empire.

The thought makes Soul's breakfast inch up his throat.

Wes's car makes it up the hill and the door pops open as soon as it parks. Wes jumps out and looks around excitedly, drinking in the sights of Shibusen Castle, and a chunk of Soul's insides shrivel up and die.

"Gorgeous," Wes exclaims, stretching his arms out dramatically.

"Yeah, you are," Star calls back.

Wes grins and pulls Star into a hug. Star laughs and wraps his arms around Wes, then lifts him off his feet.

"Good to see you, man," Black Star says, and sets Wes back down on his feet. Star's hands slowly slip down Wes's back to grip his butt. "And good to see _you_."

Soul's eyes flutter shut, the image permanently searing into his mind. "Please," Soul chokes. "Stop groping my brother."

"What?" Star says, his fingers digging deeper into Wes's flash. "We're just bros being bros."

Harvar, arms full of equipment, pauses and nods to Wes. "Boss," he says in greeting.

Wes returns the nod. "Morning, Harvey! Way to unpack, you beautiful bastard."

Harvar turns slowly and dumps the contents of his arms on to the steps of the castle.

"I paid for those," remarks Wes mildly. He turns in Black Star's arms and holds his arms, like they're posing for a prom pictures.

"Smile, baby brother. This should be the best episode yet," Wes says gleefully. "A real haunted castle. I can't wait to see how this episode ends up."

"Oh, but you're not staying with us, right?" laments Soul. "Bummer. See you at Christmas."

Wes laughs. He shakes Star off and ruffles Soul's hair. "Not to worry. I'll be staying nearby. Someone has to take care of the young Evans heir."

"Shut up," Soul replies.

Out of the corner of his eye, Soul spots a hint of black blazer turned curiously in their direction. Before Soul can do anything, Wes spots Maka, who is still holding her position in front of castle, as if protecting its gray stone walls from them.

"And who is that lovely young woman?" Wes says. He shoves Soul to the side and strides over to Maka. Wes swiftly takes her hand in both of his and raises it to his lips.

"Hello," Wes says, his lips grazing the back of Maka's hand. "Wes Evans, of the media Evanses."

Maka raises an eyebrow. "I don't know what that means."

Wes gasps. "So charming." He gestures over vaguely his shoulder. "Have you met my brother, Soul?"

Soul's heart shrinks in his chest, curls up, and then sinks to the pit of his stomach.

"He's an amazing filmmaker, did you know?" Wes brags. "His cinematography on _Spirit Slayers_ has won many web-based awards. He's a team player, and he does the voice overs for the show too- I'm sure you've noticed the raspy quality of his voice, very attractive, right? He also holds the boom! Very difficult, very heavy-"

Maka blinks rapidly. "Are you hitting on me, _for_ him?"

"Wes," Soul interrupts, trying to keep the pitch of his voice within a human range. "Go to your hotel room. We gotta record."

"Right, right," Wes says, dropping Maka's hand. "I will leave you to your art."

Wes strolls back to his car, leaving Maka staring at her hand, and disappears into the backseat. Soul follows and makes sure to shut the car down firmly, but to his chagrin, the window rolls down.

"By the way, baby brother," Wes says with a wan smile. "Father looks forward to watching this episode."

The window rolls up and the car drives away. The wheels kick up dirt and gravel rocks, leaving Soul to slap the dust off of his pants.

Hands on his knees, Soul closes his eyes and counts to ten.

"What the hell was that?"

Soul straightens, and his hand flies to his hair.

Maka laughs. "You're jumpy for a Ghost Catcher."

Soul grinds his teeth, wincing as the sharp points rub together.

 _Another reason he couldn't be host._

" _Spirit Slayer,"_ he corrects, tugs his jacket off and tosses it on top if the nearest case. He wasn't about to get the anxiety sweats in front of a very cute, very odd girl. "I just hold the boom."

Maka cocks her head. "Like the fuzzy pole thing?"

"Yeah," Soul says. "Uh, here. I'll show you." He leads her up the steps to the pile of equipment and opens one case.

"It's a Shotgun microphone, and it gets attached to the boom pole," he explains, and attaches the microphone to the pole. "Then you just-" he lifts it over his head, two hands on the pole. A gentle breeze tickles the skin of his stomach where his shirt lifts up, a little embarrassed but pleased when Maka's eyes dart to the cold spot right below his shirt and above his jeans.

He lowers the boom sheepishly. "Uh, that's it." Soul holds the boom out to Maka. "You wanna try?"

"Yeah, sure," she says, startled. Maka tugs off her pristine black blazer and trades Soul for the boom. She grips tightly between her two hands and raises it above her head. Biceps Soul didn't notice before catch his attention.

Under the drab business wear lay some bands of muscle on the charming little docent.

Eyeing Maka, Soul isn't mad about it.

"It's heavy," she grunts.

"You got the guns," Soul blurts, feeling heat creep up his neck. "You'll be fine."

Maka snorts, equally pink, and lowers the boom. Black Star, moment-ruiner supreme, takes the opportunity to makes a square with his fingers and thumb, then looks through the makeshift frame with one eye, centered solely on Soul and Maka.

"Yeah," Black Star says, nodding. "We'll do the intro here, featuring Soul, the incredible dork seducer."

Maka glares at Star and slips her jacket back on. She takes her personal walkie-talkie from her pocket and launches it, expression blank, at Black Star. It hits him square in the face and Star goes down, sprawled flat on the pavement.

"I pitch for the castle's softball team," Maka explains sheepishly. "Anyway, thanks for showing me the pole thing," she says, avoiding Soul's eye.

"No problem," he mumbles back.

Maka shuffles off to open the wide wooden doors, and Soul takes advantage of her turned back to punch a prone Star square in the gut.

Star barely flinches while Soul's knuckles ache from the impact against obsessively cultivated abs.

"Try not to hit that while we're filming," advises Star, as he gets to his feet. "We don't want to get kicked out cuz you're a shitty lay."

Soul swears profusely. "I'm not trying to get laid. I'm trying to film a series."

Star raises his hands in front of himself defensively. "Dude it's your ass on the line; I'm just trying to be helpful."

"Be less helpful," Soul growls. "And be more sane."

"Not on your life," Black Star says, and then struts towards the double doors.

Soul's breakfast slowly creeps up his throat, but he swallows it down. A dreadful, familiar cold sweat erupts on the back of his neck, trickling down to his chest, and suddenly he's 12 again and sitting on the bench of a piano. He can still hear the silence echoing in his ears, his brother's helpless shrug burned into the whites of his eyes.

"Evans," grunts Harvar, interrupting Soul's panic.

Harvar is loaded down with the last of the equipment, a stubborn attempt to move it all at once. Soul takes a folded tripod from the top of the pile with trembling hands.

This is his job now. No piano, no eyes on him.

It's better for everyone.

Kid watches as Maka ineptly flirt with a crew member from his office window, and winces when she throws her walkie (that _he_ paid for) at the blue one.

It better have stayed intact. He's not sure how soon, if ever, he could replace it.

"Stop being weird, Kiddy-Cat," says Patti, throwing herself onto Kid's second favorite chair. "Stalking is a felony."

Kid ignores her, and instead asks, "How are the tours going?"

Patti takes a sudden interest in her cuticles, replying, "Fine," rather curtly.

He waits, tapping his toes on the hardwood floors.

Patti rolls her eyes and off the armchair to the floor, hiding her face in the crack between chair and wood.

Kidd grimaces. "That bad?"

"We've had dozens of cancellations," Patti admits. "There have only been five drop-in tours between me and Liz." She pounds her fist on the floor once, the sound hollow. " _It_ tore the heads off of the pool statues."

Kid squeezes the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "It?" he deigns to ask.

Patti turns her head to glare at him. "You know what _it_ is. That's why you called the ghost busters."

"Spirit Slayers," he corrects. "As we have discussed, it's for publicity."

"That's bullshit, Sissy says so," says Patti, and lifts herself off the ground to reseat herself on the armchair. "She says you're more scared than she is."

"Impossible," Kid snorts, ignoring the tinge of truth.

By now, in a small closet off the main hall, lay a small collection of damaged art. Paintings sliced down the middle, or ripped from their frames, and broken vases.

But severed marble heads, more than one, was a first, and an exponential leap.

Patti shrugs. "You're still scared. We're losing money."

"That's the scariest part," Kid confesses. "The Yelp reviews have been unkind."

He turns his attention back to the foolishness outside of his window.

"This may be our last chance to save the castle. And ourselves," he adds gravely.


	3. In Your Neighborhood

The sun gleams off of the crystal clear, blue water of the castle pool. Maka stretches out on her favorite lounge chair, the one that gets the most sun. The book in her lap lays, ignored, as Soul raises the boom high over his head, the fuzzy head of the large mic shading her face.

Maka smiles.

Mysteriously shirtless, Soul grins back, his biceps straining with the effort of holding the boom in place.

He looks at her from behind pale lashes, with his deep, reddish eyes. His large hands frip the thick steel boom pole. His tongue peels out from between his lips, moisenting the thin skin. His lips part, and, in his high pitched, amused voice, says "Maka, you're drooling."

Maka wakes from her vivid daydream with a start. Her back protests loudly from tiredly slumping over her desk as she straightens. Her hands try to find purchase on her desk, but the carefully organized piles of paper cause her to fail and slip forward.

Liz snorts and sits in the armchair across from Maka's desk. She swings her legs up and over the thick arm of the chair, her back cushioned on the opposite arm.

"Let me guess," Liz says, mockingly contemplative. "The guy with the thick pole?"

"Classy," Maka replies, trying to subtly wipe the splittle from the corner of her mouth.

Liz laughs, and kicks off her black kitten heels. "One of us has to get laid around here. It's been a hot minute since I got any. There are no hot guys touring. Or hot girls," she adds. "Just a bunch of families."

"That is our target audience," Maka points out.

"So boring," Liz sighs, rolling her eyes. Suddenly she sits up. "We should host _parties_. Imagine!" Her hand outlines the potential markee. "Party at Death's Door. Rent Shibusen Castle for a night of drinks, food, and 35 empty bedrooms."

Maka shakes her head. "I'm not sure Kid could handle the stains."

"Fiiiiiine." Liz turns her attention to her nails, picking up a pen from the mug on Maka's desk to push back her cuticles.

"How was business?" Maka asks, failing to keep the nervous tinge out of her voice.

Liz doesn't look up from her nails. "You know how it was."

Disappointment sets in Maka's mouth.

It was getting harder and harder to ignore the lack of ticket sales and, as a result, the cut hours. The Thompson had been working at the castle the longest, even before Maka, but even they felt the sting of a smaller paycheck.

"Sorry," Maka musters.

Liz shrugs, nonchalant as always, but she can't hide the tension on her shoulders. "At least the Ghost Busters are here."

"Spirit Slayers," Maka corrects. "Hopefully we'll get more tourists when the episode airs."

"And we'll keep the ones we have, thanks to them sucking up the ghosts with their vacuums."

Maka wrinkles her nose. "They didn't have any vacuums with them, just cameras and stuff."

"Whatever. They just better exorcise the hell out of this place so I can get my nails done again." Liz returns the pen to the mug. "Oh, I found another damaged item on my last tour."

Maka groans, loud and tired. "Tourists can't keep their hands to themselves. I just finished restoring the last vase!"

Liz swings her legs off of the arms of the armchair. She stands and toes her heels back on. Without looking at Maka, she says, "Tourists are stupid, but none can rip off the head of a marble statue."

Maka's eyebrows disappear into her bangs.

Working at the castle as long as she has, Maka hears every rumor. Ghosts have long been a part of the castle's lore. When she visited the castle as a young girl, the towering stone walls inspired wild stories, told in hushed whispers by tourists and docents alike. Maka had clung to every detail, every little note of strangeness, and drank in every word of the docents, so wise and knowing. As an adult, she had taken on their job with enthusiasm, her art history degree coming in handy. Surrounded by art, filled with stories and secrets, she had found her place. Now, she giggles at rumors of ghosts and ghouls with her coworkers, teasing the visitors about the cold drafts and portraits who's eyes seemed to follow the patrons with their eyes.

But in recent months there had been more… _physical_ evidence of paranormal mischief.

Liz was the one who found the severed head of _The Huntress_ in the breakroom.

"All this stress is going to give me wrinkles. It's too late for you," she says, tapping Maka in between the eyes, right on the little furrow Kid offered to have erased with a little Juvederm as an early Christmas present.

"We have help now," Maka says, shaking off Liz's touch.

"Yeah, the store brand Ghost Busters seem very competent."

"Spirit Slayers," Maka corrects once again. "At the very least we'll get free advertising."

"And maybe you'll get a nice orgasm- ah, exorcism," Liz teases.

Maka blindly grabs a pen from her desk and throws it at her.

Cackling, Liz leaves the room. As she passes through the door, Liz calls over her shoulder, "Take one for the team, Alsborn. Tap that skinny-jean ass and call us in the morning."

Maka flops down in her chair again. "I ain't afraid of no ghost," she mumbles to herself.

During late nights, when she's alone in her office, she runs her finger tips along the cold stone aching to know the secrets it knows, the things it's seen. She's read obsessively since she was a child, books on the subject towering over her trundle bed in precarious piles. Under her pillow, she would lay premature plans for moving in, and justification for why a ten-year-old would be the perfect candidate for a junior docent.

For her efforts, she got a letter from the owner, guaranteeing her a job upon graduation and a book, written by the owner himself, about the history of the castle.

And now she might see it die without help from the nimrods with the cameras.

The night hangs heavily in the castle, and Maka's eyelids begin to droop. She checks her watch, and decides that 13 hours of work are enough for the night.

The walkie talkie hanging from the waist of her skirt remains silent, so she gathers her things, and locks up her office for the night. Maka unplugs the lights off on her way out, watching the hot bulbs fade to black. Her hand glides along the wall in the pitch black up and up and up staircases, to the favorite room. A shiver runs down the length of her spine as a cool breeze enters from….

Maka stops, her hand hovering in the air.

There are no windows in this hall.

The door door behind her flies open; it hits the wall and the knob leaves a dent behind.

Maka sucks in a sharp breath and dives behind a brocade chaise, throwing her backpack at whatever just entered through the door.

Black Star, breathing hard, her backpack in his sausage fingers.

"Whoops," he says, spotting Maka behind the chaise. "Did I scare you?"

Her heart pounding in her ears, Maka growls, " _That door was shipped in from a Belgia Monastery!"_ It comes out more high pitched than she wants it to, but Star has the decency to look taken aback.

"Dang." He peers at the dent in the wall, and the plaster crumbles to the carpet. "My bad."

Maka tries to shake off the surprise and glares at Black Star. "What are you even doing here?" She snatches back her backpack. "Aren't you supposed to be busting ghosts?"

Black Star looks her dead in the eye, serious as she's ever seen him in the last 18 hours. "We need your help." He snatches up her hand and drags her through the door from where he came. Maka stumbles along the hardwood floors, the heels of her ballet flats digging into the floor but finding no purchase.

"Whateryou- _stop,_ " Maka protests. "Let me go!"

Star drops her hand and turns to look at her exasperatedly. "We're burning night time, and this place is a friggin' maze."

"I gave you a map," Maka says, crossing her arms over her chest.

Black Star scoffs. "Yeah, a map of a _maze_. Just come help." He smiles suggestively. "I'll make if worth your while."

Maka eyes roll so hard they nearly fall out of her head. "You have nothing I want."

Star pulls out of his phone with a flourish. "I'll give you Soul's number."

Maka purses her lips.

"Let me put my stuff back in my office."

Maka leads the way, as Black Star can't find where the crew set up their equipment. ("How do you even work here," Star grumbles. "There are thirty staircases.")

They squeeze their way towards the back of the castle, through narrow and twisting sets of stone stairs. They come across a makeshift tent on one of the less decorated landings, and carefully step over criss-crossing extension cords. The single table and vase of flowers have been shoved up against the wall, dusty orange fingerprints staining the porcelain-

Maka stops in her tracks. "Who touched the Guttenberg? Is that _cheeto dust-?!"_

Soul's pure white head pops out behind the flaps of the blue tent. "Hey," he says, greeting her with a wave of a spoon.

"Are. You. _Eating_ in here?!"

Soul pauses with the spoon, laden with cereal, halfway to his mouth. "...No?"

Maka stomps over to him and snatches the spoon and bowl (19th century china), full of what looks like Captain Crunch, from his hands. "I am going to murder you."

Behind her, Black Star snorts. "Careful, he might like that." He steps around them and ducks into the tent. "Come inside, little birdy."

"I think that's you," Soul says slowly. He looks down at his wrist, where there is no watch. "Sorry about the bowl."

Maka clings a little tighter to the utensil and bowl. "It's fine, it's just a part of the Meissen dining collection, and worth more than your life and mine," she mutters, and follows to where Black Star has disappeared.

She hears Soul slump in after her, but doesn't look back.

"So," Black Star begins, clapping his hands together. "You're creepily obsessed with this place, right?"

Maka carefully sets down the china on an empty spot near a dim monitor. "What's your point?"

"You know where shit is supposed to go? Paintings and chairs and junk?"

"I just help plan the layouts, including the furniture in the dollhouse, and hang the paintings, and position the statues, and dust the books, so I guess so," she says wryly.

"So you know whether that's been moved or not." Black Star points to one of four small screens, the image grainy and tinged green. It's the double bachelor with the pink marble bathroom, one of the thirty-eight bedrooms in the main castle.

Maka frowns. "That," she says, jabbing the screen with her pinky nail. "Is not supposed to be there."

The painting in question usually hangs in a quiet corner of the castle, away from the harsh light of day that might spoil the blood-red paint of the single blossom surrounded by black.

Maka doesn't turn around to make sure they're following her; Black Star's heavy strut and Soul's shuffle echoes around her in the otherwise empty halls.

As they come upon the pink marble double bachelor, Maka slows. She touches the knob (old, vintage, priceless).

It falls off and hits the ground with a thunk.

"That's not supposed to do that," Black Star says unnecessarily.

Maka stifles an angry scream and gently pushes the door open.

Then she screams for real.

The _Red Camellia_ is slashed, top to bottom, right through the center of the blossom.

"What the fuck, what the _actual fuck-"_ Maka exclaims.

"Spirits," Star says sagely.

"Bullshit," Maka spits, turning on them. "Who staged this? Which one of you did this? The _Red Camellia_ is hundreds of years old! I'll kill you-" Maka lunges at Star, but Soul is slightly faster. He grips her tightly around the waist, leaving her to claw the air, her toes dangling in the air.

"It wasn't us," Soul says, straining to hold her back. "We've been with you the whole time."

"Duh, baby girl," Black Star says, tapping her on the nose. "That there was a ghosty."

A black lens and a bright light makes its presence known; Harvar's carefully aimed camera rests squarely on Maka's burning face.

"Where did you come from," she says, swatting at the camera.

Harvar shrugs. "I heard a scuffle."

"Dude," Soul says firmly.

The camera's lens swings up to gaze at the ceiling as Harvar hoists it onto his shoulder, one hand on his hip. The sunglasses perched on his nose, pitch black in the dimly lit double bachelor, stare at them, judging.

Soul quickly sets Maka down, putting his hands in his pockets like they weren't wrapped around her waist 2.3 seconds ago.

"This is why we're here," he says solemnly.

"We're getting the ghosties," Black Star says, whipping out a little bundle of sage and a lighter. "Beating the boogiemen." He lights the dry bundle. "Slaying the spirits." The sage smokes, and Star slowly waves waves his hand in circles to spread the smoke.

"That's stupid," Maka says flatly. "You're stupid."

Star raises an eyebrow. "Tell that to the pretty flower there."

The light of the camera flickers violently from Harvar's shoulder, calling everyone's attention. He light stops abruptly, drowning them in pitch black.

Maka stretches out a hand to touch the wall. "What the fuck-"

The room begins to shake. The stone groans as the room trembles, the sound of rock against rock emanating seemingly from deep within the ground. Winds flood the room, the air screaming in their ears. The _Red Camellia_ crashes to the floor, the frame smashes to pieces on the stone floor.

Maka grabs the back of Soul's collar and yanks him towards the wall. His body crashes into hers, but he quickly regains his senses the presses his back into her, pinning her to the wall. She peeks over his shoulder, and watches as Black Star scrambles towards the door, his hands tight on the frame, staying out of the way of the remaining furniture of the room, which are bouncing around with the force of the earthquake. Harvar struggles to raise the camera, shaking making him lose his balance. He falls on his back, his camera aimed at the painting splintered on the ground.

The shaking stops as soon as the light of the camera turns on. The only sound left in the eerie quiet is the sound of their heavy breathing.

Soul springs into action, leaving Maka against the wall. "Harvar, get a shot of Star next to the painting. Star, get in here." Soul turns to Maka, and gives a little two finger wave in front of her dazed eyes. "Can we film you? We could use some historical background on the painting. It might be connected."

"Duh, again," says Star heading for the center of the room.

"I don't know much," Maka admits, pushing off from the wall. "Eleventh century Japan, unique. Kid might know more."

Soul nods. "Can you call him to get the info?"

Maka gives him a strange look.

He shrugs. "You're… better for the camera."

Heat creeps up Maka's neck at the semi-compliment.

She'll take it.

Maka steps out of the room to make the call, watching Soul direct out of the corner of her eye.

Kid answers on the second ring, but he doesn't know much more than she does.

"Dad used to joke that he bought the painting and the castle came for free," he says wistfully. "The castle was empty otherwise. Just the painting and the stones."

Maka relays the conversation to the crew, and a slow smile spreads across Star's face.

"A mystery," he says gleefully.

"We're going to need another week on the schedule," Soul says, shaking his head forlornly. "I'll call Wes."

"Soul," Star says suddenly, and takes both of Soul's shoulder firmly. "You need to put off your sexual tension with the blonde until we're done filming."

"Star, please-"

"Silence, peon," Star says dramatically shoving Soul out of the way. "I am an artist. Let me work." Star whips crystals and candles out of the pockets of his tight leather pants and sets up a makeshift altar right next to the painting. He sits, legs crossed, his little set up in front of it with his hands resting on his knees, palms up.

He is as still as Maka has ever seen him.

Soul lets out a huge groan. He stretches his arms over his head, reminiscent of a delicious daydream Maka had in her head not too long ago.

"Now we wait," Soul yawns and throws himself onto the nearest couch.

Maka resists the urge to hiss as his full body weight hits the delicate fabric.

"Please be careful," she says. "That's 18th century-"

A look from Soul cuts her off.

"Do you ever just relax?" he asks with a crooked grin.

"Not when there's earthquakes with zero fault lines within 150 miles." She pauses. "But I do puzzles."

"That's… not fun, that's work."

"It is too fun," Maka insists. "It challenges your mind."

"Come on," Soul says, pushing himself up all the way. "If you could do something crazy, impulsive, and stupid, what would you do?"

Maka's lips purse, the first thing that springs to mind going against every rule built into her bones.

The moonlight streams in from the open patterned walls, making little fleur de li spots of light on the light blue carpet. The summer breeze flows through the open air room, warm and flowery. It made the four poster bed, with its cream colored sheets, look so inviting. Maka floats over to the bed, and strokes the sheets delicately. Her fingers trace the intricately beaded pillows.

Then, she flops down on her face, her body releasing all of the tension it's been carrying since she walked in to the double bachelor. Her fingers trace the intricately beaded pillows, the pearls cool in her finger tips.

She imagines her tiny, baby self finally crawling into the sheets, rosy little face utterly delighted.

It's perfect.

Maka can feel Soul's eyes, a shade of amusement in his eyes. It occurs to her that she is lying on a bed, in front of a rather attractive man, her modest length skirt slid up her high in a not-so-modest way. A shiver rolls down Maka's spine, and she kind of hopes it's a ghostly draft rather than a premature crush.

She rolls so her back is flat on the bed and silently begs the ceiling Gods to come get her.

"Oh my god," she moans. "I just ruined centuries old silk."

"Yeah, well," Soul says, sitting down on the bed beside her. "It was yellowing anyway. Too much light."

Maka sits up, trying to subtly tug her skirt down her thighs. "How do you know so much about antique sheets? Cool guys like you should know more about motor oil or whatever."

"I am a complex man," he replies, very seriously. But he cracks a grin when she directs an elbow into his side.

The room is dark, but Maka is close enough to make out his ruddy irises. Impulsively, she taps him between the brows. His eyes cross as he tries to keep his focus on her fingertips.

"Your eyes are red," she whispers.

Soul nods, his brow hitting Maka's fingertips a couple of times.

Her fingers float up to the hair grazing his forehead, almost like bangs but definitely overgrown from lack of attention. "And your hair is white."

"All natural," he says, and uses his hand to lower hers away from his face, his palm warming the back of her hand.

Maka imagines a bubble around them, closing them off from the rest of the castle, keeping them safe from whatever made the room quake.

"This is cool." Soul says, reading her mind. "Quiet."

The long white curtains hanging from the four poster bed move gently with the breeze; the air shifts Maka's bangs away from her face.

Soul lifts his hands and pokes Maka between the eyebrows, right on the little wrinkle Liz teased her about earlier.

"There's stuff for that, you know," he says.

Maka swats his hand away, stifling a giggle.

A scream rips through the air, rupturing their bubble. They quickly leap off of the bed, and bolt towards the sound.


End file.
